by John Benteen
“Then what am I supposed to do—let him go free?”
Sundance said quietly: “He’s not going free. Don’t worry about that.” He gestured to the body. “You just keep all this quiet, includin’ that I’m back. Let me get some sleep, and tomorrow you and I’ll head for North Platte.”
Crook looked into the half-breed’s eyes. Slowly he nodded, a faint, cold grin tugging at his lips. “All right,” he said. “After all, he owes you more, I guess, than he does me.” The grin went away. “But I want him dealt with,” he said harshly. “Do you understand? The dead troopers, the dead Cheyennes, the dead woman who never did him any harm ... I want him to pay.”
“He’ll pay,” said Sundance.
Crook looked at him a moment more. “Very well. I’ll go and send a wire to Captain Taylor this minute. Meanwhile, Jim, you get some rest.” He shuddered. “What a ghastly experience you had.”
“I expect I’ll dream about that dog for quite a while,” said Sundance.
~*~
Four hours of sleep and a good breakfast was enough; Sundance was fully revived when he, Crook, and Bourke, set out for North Platte at daybreak. All three men were wary, for there was still the threat of rabid animals to contend with. “We made a dent in the animal population,” Crook said, “but this thing is far from over yet. We need to do more poisoning, and then the burning. But without the threat of that mad murderer hanging over their heads, the men will go at it with a will, now. With luck, in a week, we’ll have the area cleared—especially since you say the rabies hasn’t spread across the divide.” He shook his head. “What a Satanic thing—to drag a dog he knew was going mad all the way from here to there, just in the hope of using it on you.”
“That was how his mind worked,” Sundance said. “He was as crazy as the dog.”
“And so’s Ravenal,” Bourke put in. “General, I see it now. You know how he always wears something that’s Confederate gray, even if it’s just a hat? Hell, he was flaunting it right under our noses—his allegiance to the Confederacy. What a laugh he must have got out of that! Doing business, making money off the Yankee army, and waging war against it at the same time!”
“Yes,” Crook said thinly. “Well, we have plenty of good soldiers serving right now who wore Confederate gray in their time. General Lee himself has made his peace with the Government. You can’t condemn them all. That alone was no reason to suspect him.”
Fording the river, they galloped to McPherson Station where the westbound train Crook had ordered to be held sat waiting, dark plume rising from its smokestack. Turning their horses over to the station master, they swung aboard, the locomotive hooted and the train pulled out. The other passengers in the car stared at the two Army officers and the buckskin-clad, blond, gray-eyed half-breed with his belt loaded with weapons and a rifle in his hand, who took seats in the rear.
Sundance had ridden trains many times, but he never ceased to wonder at their speed. To a man brought up to measure swiftness in terms of a running horse or fleeing pronghorn, there was still something incredible about the rate at which these great iron monsters traveled. Only a few minutes, and they were nearing North Platte. Well outside the town, Crook nodded to the conductor, who pulled the emergency cord. Jerkingly, the train ground to a halt and Sundance stepped out of the car even before it had ceased to roll, leaving Crook and Bourke behind. Leaning off the step, the conductor signaled, and the train moved on.
“Jim,” said Captain Taylor, waiting there beside the roadbed with an extra horse, “what the hell is up?”
“Well, first of all, I was right. It was Maxton—Silent Enemy.” Sundance put the rifle into the saddle scabbard, mounted. “He’s dead. His body’s over at Fort McPherson, pickled in brine.”
“Pickled in—”
“I’ll explain later. Ravenal. What about him?”
“I put two men in civilian clothes to watch him, the minute I got the General’s wire last night. He played cards until about one in the morning, at the saloon. Then he went home to his house on the north side of town. About half an hour later, he had a visitor.” He smiled wryly. “One of the best looking redheaded women you ever saw. Name’s Madge Benson. I understand she runs a house of ill fame in Julesburg, and has a part interest in one called the Doves’ Nest here. At last report, Ravenal had gone to his office, but she’s still, at his house.”
“Good,” Sundance said. “When we reach your post, I want you to order that house surrounded and that woman arrested.”
“On what charges?”
“I don’t care what charges. Tell her there’s a plot against her life or something and you’re taking her into protective custody. Just grab her and hold on to her until further orders. She’s going to be an important witness against Ravenal.”
“Ravenal? Jim, I don’t understand what this is all about.”
Briefly, Sundance told him. Taylor’s jaw dropped, then clamped shut. “Don’t worry. I’ll see that she’s taken.” He shook his head. “Ravenal. Goddlemighty!” He turned to Sundance. “After I give the orders, North Platte on the double?”
“Not for you and me. We’ll take our time, have a cup of coffee. Give the General and Captain Bourke a little time to set the trap. Then I spring it.”
“Be careful how you do,” said Taylor grimly.
“I’ve seen Ravenal in action with a six-gun. Fitz was good, but Ravenal makes him look like an old woman. Whatever else he is, the sonofabitch is a fighting man.”
~*~
Three-quarters of an hour later, in Taylor’s office, Sundance put down his empty coffee cup. “All right,” he said. “Let’s ride on into town.”
Outside the C.O.’s office, they mounted, headed for North Platte, taking a roundabout way. Circling the town, they entered the north outskirts. “There,” said Taylor, pointing to a long log building. “That’s Ravenal’s warehouse and office.”
Sundance nodded. “Yeah. It would have been easy. He hid Silent Enemy in the warehouse for a long time. At night he could come and go without anybody spottin’ him. And who’d have figured Ravenal as hidin’ the killer?” They circled the building, dismounted and tied their horses at the hitch rack in front. Then Sundance stiffened. Beside the door, under the sign: RAVENAL & CO.—MERCHANDISE AND FACTORS, lounged a hulking, bearded man with broad sloping shoulders, his thumbs hooked in his gun belt. Seeing the officer and the half-breed, he straightened up.
“Who the hell’s he?” Sundance whispered to Taylor.
“Don’t know. Another of Ravenal’s bodyguards, I guess. Reckon with Carson gone, he had to hire a new one.”
The bearded man had muscles like an ape, a head to match, forehead slanting back, eyes twin black beads, mouth a slit amongst the brush of wiry hair. As Sundance and Taylor approached, he moved sideways to block the door.
“Good morning,” said Taylor pleasantly. “Is Mr. Ravenal in his office?”
The answer came in a surly growl. “Yeah, he’s in. Left orders not to be disturbed. Conference with top brass, soldier boy.”
“You mean General Crook. I’m under orders to report to him here.”
“I don’t give a damn what orders you got. Ravenal said nobody comes in. You wait out here until he’s through.”
“Now, listen—” Taylor flared. In that instant, the man’s attention was riveted on him. Sundance moved as quickly and as lithely as a cat. His gun had already cleared leather before the bodyguard caught the motion, spun. Too late. Sundance brought the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel of the Colt down in a crashing blow. Even as the bearded man reached for his own gun, the steel slammed hard against his head. Sundance felt its impact on bone even through the thickness of the beaver-hide Stetson. The man’s eyes rolled back, his knees buckled, and he pitched forward into the dust. Sundance bent, scooped up his Colt, thrust it in his waistband.
“All right,” he said. “Now for the big dog himself.” In the lead, he shoved through the door.
A single clerk sat at a desk in an outer off
ice. Startled, he looked up. “Ravenal,” Sundance rasped. “Where is he?”
“Mr. Ravenal—” Then, looking into Sundance’s eyes, the man, hardly more than a boy, turned pale. “That’s his office.” He jerked a thumb toward a closed wooden door.
“Good,” Sundance said. “Now you get out of here. Take the day off.”
“I can’t—”
“You’d damned well better.”
“Yes, sir!” The man arose, was putting on hat and coat as Sundance strode toward the door, Taylor trailing. As he put his hand on the knob of Ravenal’s office door, Sundance heard the front door close behind the boy. Grinning tightly, he swung the entrance to the office open and stepped inside with Taylor close behind.
Ravenal was lounging behind his desk, a thin black cheroot clamped between white teeth, his gray suit immaculate. Crook and Bourke occupied chairs to the right and left. As Sundance entered, Ravenal jerked upright. The cigar sagged, his eyes widened in surprise. “Sundance!” But he was startled only for an instant, and then recovered, handsome face creasing in a smile. “So you’ve come back. General Crook and Captain Bourke were afraid something had happened to you. And Captain Taylor ... Pull up chairs, and if you’d like a drink—”
“No, thanks.” Sundance’s hand dangled close to his gun. His eyes swept the room. “Maynard and Fitz. Where are they, Ravenal?”
Ravenal licked his lips. “Why, I was just telling General Crook, I sent them to Afton, down on the Republican, on business for me. They should be back any time.”
“So they’re still working for you.”
“Of course. Why—? I don’t understand this, but I don’t like your manner. How’d you get past Gaynor at the door?” Ravenal shoved back his chair, eyes going hard and hostile.
“Gaynor’s asleep—for quite a while. And Maynard and Fitz are dead.” Sundance spaced the words, watching Ravenal’s face carefully. “So,” he added coldly, “is Cole Maxton—Silent Enemy.”
Ravenal drew in a long breath. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You understand very well. The three of them were in it together, set a trap for me. It almost worked, but not quite. And Maxton spilled his guts. You’re the one, Ravenal, behind it all. I know about California, how you met Silent Enemy, hid him in your warehouse while he went about his killing, let him murder your wife so the way’d be clear with Madge Benson for you—”
“This is ridiculous. The Benson woman’s a well-known whore. Why would I—?”
“That’s your affair. All I know is that she’s at your house right now, under arrest by a crew of troopers. And she’ll talk, Ravenal. If only to save her own skin, she’ll spill it all. You wanted to get rid of your wife—and start an Indian war, so you could get fat off of other people’s blood. Well, you’re finished.”
Ravenal stared at him a moment. Then he turned to Crook. “General, are you going to listen to the ravings of this madman? As long as we’ve done business …”
Slowly Crook stood up. “I don’t think Sundance is mad. You admitted to us, Captain Bourke and me, that Maynard and Fitz still worked for you. And a team’s headed across the divide right now to recover their bodies and bring them in. We have what’s left of Maxton preserved in brine at Fort McPherson—together with arrows that he used, which matched the killer’s. It’s plenty of evidence to place you under arrest for the murder of a lot of U.S. soldiers. Captain Taylor, if you will, arrest this man.”
Ravenal jumped to his feet. “I’ve never heard of anything so prepost—” He broke off as he saw the muzzle of Sundance’s gun trained on him.
“Stand fast,” Sundance rasped. “Taylor, take his gun and search him. And don’t get in my line of fire.”
“No, of course not.” Taylor stepped around the desk, moved behind Ravenal, reached under his coat and whisked the Colt from holster. “Now—” he began.
But he’d made an amateur’s mistake, standing too close to Ravenal’s back. When Ravenal moved, it was with incredible speed. His left arm, flailing, knocked the gun from Taylor’s hand, he spun before Sundance could shoot, his right arm jerking—and suddenly in his right hand was a twin-barreled. Derringer, slipped from a sleeve harness up his wrist. Sundance’s finger tightened on the trigger, but too late. Suddenly Ravenal was behind Taylor, left arm locked around the throat of the officer. The Derringer was rammed into the small of Taylor’s back.
“All right, Sundance,” Ravenal said, voice breathy, eyes glittering. “Drop the gun, or I let Taylor have both slugs in the back.” His mouth twisted. “They’re .41 caliber, and they’ll kill him dead as hell.”
Sundance’s finger eased on the trigger of the Colt.
“I said drop it,” Ravenal repeated flintily. “Unless you want one more dead soldier on your conscience. If I go, he goes with me.”
“Sundance, don’t mind me—” Taylor whispered.
Ravenal’s arm clamped tighter, shutting off his wind.
“Be quiet,” he rasped. “Now let’s get things straight. I don’t know how the hell you did it, Sundance, but Maxton promised me that if I loaned him Maynard and Fitz, you’d be finished by now. You must have a goddamned charmed life. Anyhow, the game’s played out for me here. I can see that. So I run. Now. Take off your gunbelts, all of you, and throw ’em through that office door. And I mean quick!”
“Ravenal!” Bourke blurted. “Listen—”
“Shut up, you goddam Bluebelly. You know how many Yankee soldiers I’ve killed in my time? You think one more makes any difference? I said throw your weapons outside the door!”
There was a second’s silence. Then Crook said wearily, “All right. Jim, you, too. That’s an order.”
Sundance eased down the hammer on the Colt. There was nothing he could do that would not cost Taylor’s life. Without turning, he threw the Colt and the one in his waistband behind him, through the open door, and unbuckled his belt, knife and axe following. Crook and Bourke followed suit, tossing their sidearms outside.
Ravenal’s eyes glittered in triumph. “Good. Taylor, move.” With the Derringer boring into the captain’s back, he shoved Taylor forward. As Crook, Bourke, and Sundance watched, they went through the door. Then Ravenal kicked it shut. A second later, a key turned in its lock.
A minute passed, two, three, as the men stood helpless, rigid. That is, Crook and Bourke did; Sundance dodged behind the desk, scooped up Taylor’s Colt that Ravenal had knocked from his hand. Crook’s hand clamped on the half-breed’s wrist. “Jim, no—we’ve got to give Taylor every chance—”
“He has no chance,” Sundance rasped. “Damn it—” He broke off as, outside, there were two muffled reports of a gun. Sundance made a sound in his throat, threw himself against the door.
It yielded slightly, but, made of oak, did not give. “Bourke!” Sundance snapped. The captain joined him, both lunging again against the door. This time the lock splintered free and the door swung wide. The outer office was empty—Sundance’s weapons belt gone completely, the guns plucked from the holsters of Crook and Bourke. Outside, the hoofbeats of a running horse drum rolled. And, through the wide-open front door, they saw a blue-clad figure sprawled face down in the dusty street.
“Taylor!” Crook grated. “He shot him after all!” Running to the captain, he bent over his body.
Sundance hurtled past him, toward the hitch rack. His own horse, the best of the lot, was gone, which meant that Ravenal also had a rifle. Ramming Colt in holster, Sundance unlatched the reins of Crook’s mount, hit the saddle without touching stirrup, put the big cavalry gelding into a run. Hundreds of yards ahead, Ravenal’s passage raised a trailing cloud of dust on the prairie. Sundance followed, glancing once over his shoulder to see Bourke galloping down the street, headed for the post to bring out the troopers, while Crook still bent over Taylor.
Sundance checked the rifle boot behind his thigh. Bourke’s carbine was there, a single-shot Springfield. A round was in the chamber, but Sundance had no more ammo for it. So that single b
ullet and the five in his six-gun would have to do—but first he had to catch Ravenal. And, bending low in the saddle, Sundance saw that Ravenal, ex-horse soldier that he was, knew how to get the most out of a mount. With his better horse, he was steadily widening the gap.
Sundance lashed his own horse with rein-ends, raked it with spurless heels, but Crook chose animals for endurance as much as speed, and it simply was not in a class with Ravenal’s. Still, the other man increased his lead, swinging now toward the east. Once, turning in the saddle, he fired two rounds from Sundance’s own rifle. Though no one could count on hitting a target from a running horse at such a range, one slug came close enough to hear, and there was no doubt that Ravenal knew how to use a gun, long or short. If he made it into cover, it would take a troop of cavalry to roust him out—and then they would lose some men.
And cover was what he headed for—first the long valley that lay ahead, rich now with grass high as a horse’s withers, the source of hay for the post. Once in that, he’d have concealment as far as the grove of jack pines beyond, where, on a ridge, he could dismount, get off some well-aimed rifle shots, maybe drop Sundance or his horse, and then ride on into broken country. Only a hundred yards, a little more, and he’d be in that tall grass and as dangerous as a grizzly, with a good chance of escaping entirely. Sundance cursed, swung down, yanking Bourke’s carbine from its scabbard. Damned old Springfield single shot .45—why the Army didn’t issue its men repeating rifles was inexplicable. But this was its standard weapon—against Indians often armed with Henry and Winchester repeaters. Anyhow, he had one shot, and that was all—and it had to count.
He knelt, took aim. Ravenal was almost in the valley now, about to plunge into the grass. Sundance took a lead on the running horse and fired. The gun’s roar was thunderous, its puff of smoke immense. When the veil of white cleared, he saw that he had missed—
Had missed Ravenal, with the unfamiliar weapon, but had hit his horse. The animal had dropped, killed instantly. Ravenal, thrown free, was just scrambling to his feet, scooping up his rifle. Dazed, he shook his head, and then scuttled on foot into the grass, bent low. It closed around him and he disappeared from view. Sundance grunted with frustration. Now, with his Winchester, Ravenal could pot him like a duck if he galloped on horseback toward that hayfield.